


Growing Out of Me

by HadenXCharm



Series: Growing [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Childhood, Growing Up, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person, Pre-Canon, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rukongai, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-10 22:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HadenXCharm/pseuds/HadenXCharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I remember when Zaraki's san-seki was not yet taller than me, because I watched him grow. I remember when that man was a boy. I only see the back of his head and shoulders now in battle, but I remember when I used to lead him by the hand. He doesn't need me now, and is forever walking away. Even with all the pain inside me at your departure, you've brought me so much joy... Ikkaku.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When we first met, you were younger than me, much younger. You had to have been about eleven, and from one look, I knew that you had been born here. You'd lived in this filth all your life and had never been to the living world. You were playing around in the mud with some other kids, having a good time; one minute everything was fine, and the next, things got violent. One of them put a dirty handprint on your shiny naked head and laughed at you, and you punched him dead in the eye.

I don't know why, but after the other kids scattered, you just stayed there and stared at the ground for a long time. I was waiting there to meet with a man, and when he showed up, you were still there, looking at a dirty puddle with your back to us.

You were an annoying little shit. We were right in the middle of it and I guess we were making too much noise because you spoke right up in a voice that hadn't yet dropped from puberty. It wasn't exactly a high voice, but it was definitely that of a boy, even though you were tall for your age and gangly too. It wasn't any wonder that the kids made fun of you.

"Hey! Shut up over there! Die quietly!" To be honest, that made me laugh a little, since my partner was pretty noisy. It did sound rather like a dying man.

"Want me ta' break your ribs, kid?" my partner growled, standing up and cracking his knuckles, closing his yukata and storming over there. I had half a mind to call to him and tell him to let it go, that you were just a kid and that you had no idea what you were interrupting, but something kept me silent. Your skinny little body and your tight fists told me to stay quiet.

You fought okay for a kid, but your strength was lacking. You were just a young boy up against a grown man, after all, but still I didn't step in or speak up, even when you were sent sprawling in the dirt, spitting out your own teeth.

"You're interrupting me and my mouth-date, Gaki. I was busy with him. He's tellin' me about some noisy kid when he should be putting his lips to better use, so you'd better _shut_ up."

You sniffed a little, but frowned fiercely, wiping your cheek hard and standing up. "How come yer' talkin' about yer' sweetheart that way? You tryna' make'm cry?" you asked in such utter confusion and offense that I had to tilt my head in wonder. Were you a run-away noble? How on earth could a young boy who'd grown up here think something like that? Me and _him,_ sweethearts? Did love like that even exist out here in district seventy-five?

My partner grew angry, a vein pinching in his forehead and I could see immediately that he was out for your blood. He was going to kill you. My jaw slackened and I turned towards you two fully, clothes still a mess. I'd seen death before; I'd even killed before – it was inevitable out here – but you were so young still, and he was going to kill you. He was really going to kill you and do lord knows what to your body while you were still warm.

"Sorry, Ayasegawa, I think I'm gonna' cum in this one instead," he snapped, grabbing you by the throat and squeezing so hard that I could hear your breath cut off. Your feet were dangling, and my eyes were wide. Still, I said nothing to stop him.

 _'C'mon kid,_ ' I thought, and I wasn't disappointed.

You kicked him dead between the legs with every ounce of your strength. I think he actually blacked out. In any case, it was good that he'd paid me up front.

I had to hurry and get my clothes back on then, because after you finished coughing, you came right up to me and just looked, expression curious and open as you watched on. When I finally looked back at you, you were bloody and beaten, but as our eyes met, your face lit up in a brilliant smile, one so wide and toothy that you looked like a kitten that couldn't quite pull off a threatening look just yet.

"Hey, that was fun!" you said with a lilt in your voice, laughing a little bit and looking back at my moaning partner, who was balled up and holding himself. You snickered a little more and sat down right next to me and scootched in, pulling a leaf out of my hair. I leaned back, lips pursed, but you just scootched in again, getting way too close into my face. Goddammnit, you had booger-breath and you wouldn't stop chattering.

"Were you guys kissing over here? Or were you killing him? He was moaning like he was dying, so, were you killing him? Uh… Oh…" you said, as if by saying it out loud, it occurred to you that it might be true, and you were a little embarrassed for cutting in before I could finish the job.

"Sorry for doing that, then. I didn't know you were gonna' do it first," you mumbled apologetically, scratching the back of your neck with a sheepish expression, coming to the conclusion that I was torturing a guy out in the woods. I suppose I was, in the sweetest possible way.

"You should get home," I suggested, standing up, knowing very well that you may _have_ no home. It was more likely than not that you were an orphan, even if you'd been born here. "The sun's going down. There are bad men out at night."

"Yeah!" you said with a huge grin, standing up with me and bouncing away next to my arm. I noticed you had snatched up a shinai that had been lying around. I wonder why you hadn't gone for it immediately when you'd seen you'd had to fight. Naive child. "Maybe we can find some to beat up! You an' me together can take 'em!" you chirped excitedly like you'd single-handedly decided that we were now the best of friends.

"That would be incredibly foolish," I said, and I could tell that you didn't know whether I was berating my own skills or yours. I wasn't quite sure either, but it didn't kill your enthusiasm.

"I am Ikkaku!" you said, and didn't ask for my name, even though I provided it after a few moments. "Yoroshiku!" you said, grabbing my sleeves and pulling my hands apart so you could grab one with your grubby mitt, not to shake, but to hold. I grimaced, but let you. It crossed my mind that you may be a cutthroat pocket thief, but what value did my life have to you, anyways?

I bought you dinner. You were a skinny thing. Maybe not as skinny as me, but enough for concern. When I told you where I was going, you followed behind and agreed that you were starving and would do just about anything for some good pork ribs. You had spirit energy too, and good god, could you put food away. The money was almost all gone already, but I thought that was okay just this once.

I guess you just never left after that.

You were a huggy affectionate boy at that age. You'd grab me around the middle and just squeeze at seemingly insignificant times, pressing your cheek tight into my body with a big smile and eyes clenched shut, and I would just stand there calmly and let you. Sometimes you'd take my hand and let me lead you when we walked, and sometimes you'd drape yourself over my shoulders or lean on my side when I sat down next to our many campfires. You'd roll in the night and get yourself wrapped around me fiercely as you slept, and when you were exhausted and trying to stay up while I was sitting awake thinking, you'd practically lay on me and stroke my leg or arm, eyelids drooping. You'd sometimes even give me a sloppy kiss on my face with those bird lips that kids naively think are meant for kissing. You'd kiss my cheek in an act of pure affection and I would endure it, but I never once even patted your back or stroked your head in return, fearing it would encourage you.

It was unbearable at times, since you had no idea what I did for a living and how close those gestures you were making were mocking that, but I didn't _want_ you to know about that, so I just let you continue. I wonder how on earth you could be so infuriating, so bull-headed, but still so sweet. At any rate, it told me that you had not been born an orphan. You had been raised by somebody, and whoever it had been had done a good job on you.

Your mother obviously had hugged you and kissed you and made you think it was okay to show when you liked someone by touching. Your mother, your sister, whoever had taken care of you, because someone had – they made you sweet, but tough. Still, I knew, something like that can only last for such a short time in a place like this. You wouldn't be sweet or kind for long. One day you would grow into the cruel world you'd been born unto.

Compared to you, I feel old and grey, but also wise, and much calmer than I ever thought that I was. You are bouncy and excitable, not giggly, but manic and prone to rash decisions. However, it seemed like now that I was here, you constantly looked to me for permission or approval, or simply a lack of a negative reaction that let you know that whatever you were about to do wasn't too stupid.

That shinai was way too big for you, but you carried it everywhere now, and even though you had long legs for your age, you had to take twice as many steps as I did, constantly looking up to chatter to me, and then down to avoid logs and twigs. You were always covered in cuts and bruises, and you were easily distractable, which meant you walked into a ton of things, but you never complained no matter how bad you hurt yourself.

No, you never did complain about pain, but you were still quite the crybaby. You were alarmingly sensitive, even being an eleven-year-old boy who had grown up on the streets with bad adults and mean kids. It was never in a tantrum and never to exploit or manipulate me, but all the same it made me really uncomfortable.

Yes, you cried a lot, and I didn't know how to handle it at first, because something would happen out of seemingly nowhere, maybe you'd be thinking things about people, maybe something would have happened earlier in the day with some other kids and you'd be thinking back to an upsetting thing that they'd said, and you'd fall apart. Maybe once or twice, _I_ hurt your feelings without knowing. There were no warning signs most of the time - you'd just start sniffling and your mouth would turn down in the corners and then you'd just bawl. Sometimes, you'd only sniffle and cry quietly for just a few minutes, but others you'd start _wailing,_ inconsolably so, and part of me would just shut down. I would pat your shoulder then, but offer no words of comfort unless you wanted to talk to me about it. You often did. Almost always, in fact. You had no mental-censure at your age.

You'd tell me about how so-and-so made fun of your head and that you'd gotten so mad that you hadn't been able to say anything and that they'd _laughed_ at you, and then you'd just start blubbering and your shoulders would shake. Humiliation really cut you far too deep, didn't it. Your heart was too big and soft for your own good, and you often had hurt feelings. I didn't let you cry into my chest or hug me for comfort at those times. I didn't hug you to make you stop crying. You'd try sometimes, but I wouldn't let you. You were seeking love and reassurance, someone to hold you and pet your head and tell you how good you were, but I wouldn't do that.

I simply would pat your shoulder and let my hand rest there as I looked at your wet, disgusting, snot-covered face and tell you that you needed to become stronger. Yes, you needed to become stronger and then you could really show those mean kids. That always seemed to help, because you'd start sniffling and breathing those shuddery post-crying-fit breaths and nod a bunch of times, wiping your eyes. Then you'd smile and look up to me like I'd made you feel a thousand times better, like I was the smartest person in the world. I'd certainly never felt that way about myself.

If only I could take my own advice when I was called a dumb whore. If I could just be a little bit stronger, I'd make those men sorry.

Yes, you cried when you were embarrassed, when you got angry and couldn't keep it in, and a lot when you were scared - emotions that you couldn't handle went straight to your tear ducts, and I suspect it was because you couldn't stand your own helplessness. You got scared a lot at your age, even though you were still a tough little shit. Although you were brave enough to kick men in the shins and swear like a sailor, there were still times that fear overtook you. You'd wake from nightmares, scream bloody murder during thunderstorms, or see certain men, big foreboding men that must remind you of someone, and you'd just hide behind me like my skinny body would protect you.

It would occur to me then that I was an adult to you, that I seemed stronger, that I seemed clever and able enough to keep you safe if you felt that you couldn't do it yourself, but that just wasn't true. I'd walk away at those times and let you cry by yourself if you didn't have the sense of mind to run after me. I had no tolerance for fear-tears, and they'd stop quickly when I told you so. You were a brave little guy, and you were dying to make me proud.

One thing I noticed was that you never wept for sadness, and never for pain. You broke your ankle once and didn't even get teary-eyed, but good god, you yelled and cursed up a storm. I wished I could be like that, but I was the exact opposite. I didn't think I'd ever get used to the pain of being entered, or that of being left afterwards without a goodbye. I never let you see me in tears though. I wasn't your parent, and I certainly wasn't your older brother, but I was the adult, I was older, and I wanted to make you feel that security, I wanted you to feel that things would be okay. I wanted to let you keep that fragile illusion intact for as long as possible.

You were seeking love and acceptance, seeking comfort, but I knew that being too soft out here is a weakness, and I had to help you by providing tough love. I never said things like 'it's okay', or 'don't worry'. The world was a real place, and I wanted you to feel safe with me but not to rely on me, because one day I might not be here with you for you to depend on. I didn't trust my own strength, I didn't trust myself to be strong enough to always protect you, so I never did from day one.

It had to have been working, because over time, you'd cry less and less when you got upset, gaining more emotional control, and you'd start working out your own solutions with less of my advice. When you were afraid, you were determined to pound through it. You became stronger, independent, but not arrogant. You still needed company and nurturing and wouldn't have been okay on your own – your soft heart wasn't gone, but you were strong. You were tough and sure of yourself. Hurt feelings didn't stop you like they'd used to.

We traveled together for a long time, going from district to district, aimlessly so. I didn't want to stay in one place for too long. The same men can get stale, and a lot of times they ended up fighting over me. It's a mess that I don't want you involved in. It's not that I thought I could protect you from adult ideas like that or keep you from knowing how children are made, and it's not that I felt responsible for you or for maintaining your innocence – because I didn't. I just didn't want you in the middle of that. I wanted to keep us out of it, so we left.

I lead like I knew where I was going, and of course I didn't, because we were going just about anywhere other than where we had just been. You didn't seem to know that, or didn't care, because you just followed without even asking 'are we there yet' once. It's like we were on a never-ending trip, but you seemed to get that somehow and just strode along behind me on my left side, sometimes catching up enough to jolt my elbow and look into my face. We talked together a lot, and my throat constantly hurt.

You were still so excited and happy that the teeth on the sides of your mouth were falling out. You were growing in your adult-teeth and were elated that you were a step closer to becoming a man. You'd often tell me that you couldn't wait to grow up and be as tall as me so that we could have kids and go live somewhere nice. I never dignified that with a response, because you didn't know what you were saying and there was no need to explain. It was a sweet gesture, and I let you daydream of a life where that was possible.

I grew tired of talking, used to being alone, and sometimes I'd just walk in silence and swallowed a lot to soothe my dry throat, but you didn't let it bother you. You'd tell me that I didn't have to answer, but you were going to tell me about your day anyways or what you'd been thinking about, and just chattered on like you knew I wasn't made for prolonged conversation but still craved something other than silence. You'd dull out those cruel thoughts that I'd have when I was alone. The buzz that came from your mouth kept me from thinking too much, from dropping into depression between clients.

Sometimes I'd have a lover, a real lover that would travel with us briefly, and you didn't speak up on it, although I doubted you accepted them into our little 'us' that we had going. Maybe you realized that it wouldn't last forever but saw that I was happy for that short moment and let me do as I wished. Even if they weren't nice to you, you didn't say anything much about it. When you were jealous, you were never angry about it; you just vied for my attention harder until I was distracted from whichever man I was with. It never lasted between them and me anyway, and I was left heartbroken a lot. That seemed to happen if I attached feelings to sex, and I paid for it. I always ended up paying for it. I was glad you were there to keep me from breaking into tears. I will never cry in front of you.

You never asked to lead us. It made little sense to me, seeing as you were a head-strong child who knew what he wanted. You were the one beating the weeds and breaking twigs with your shinai as we walked by, driving me crazy with your noise, but you didn't ask to lead, and you didn't argue if I chose a path that was less adventuresome looking than the one you had liked. Sometimes I would let you pick the path or the district, but I always ended up in front leading the way. You walked behind me, always behind me.

You still smiled a lot, and you didn't look dirty or strange to me anymore. I felt at home, and your charming cute face was like the sun to me. I was so pleased to be alone no longer, but my heart was cold. We had been together for long enough now that I had settled into our routine of walking all day, stopping for food every other day, and roaming at night while you slept. I wondered if you knew where the money came from. Sometimes you'd screech 'rakki' in my ear and run off, having found a coin in the dirt or having gotten a little paycheck for a small job that you hadn't told me about as a surprise.

I looked back a lot to make sure you were there, to let you catch up. I felt so silly, and I was starting to think I wasn't a very good leader. I couldn't shake off the feeling that you would question my decisions someday, like I already did.

"You don't smile very much," you noted one day, frowning a little as you scrutinized my face, pulling my yukata to make me lean down to you just a little bit. Your head came to the top of my shoulder, but you still didn't like it when I would purposefully ignore you and look away.

"Ikkaku, I told you not to do that," I protested, holding my clothes closed and retying my sash now that you'd yanked my collar down too far to one side. There were bruises that were pleasantly sore that you didn't need to see.

"Hey!" you shouted to get my attention and to keep me from steering you off topic. You were on to my games by now. "Why don't you smile? Aren't you happy?" you asked, so wonderfully innocent even in your gruff street-urchin manner that I wanted to pick you up and shield you from the world. My perfect little man, so wonderfully simple. I hoped that you'd never grow out of that, that you'd never grow up and see a Yumichika other than the one you saw right now, the one who was classy and beautiful and who had dignity, the one who knew the answer to everything.

You were twelve, and you had a bokken now. You gave me your shinai and sparred with me with it, and I could still beat you at that time. You were never upset about it and only grew more excited for the next time, seeming to be admiring me and thinking of me as your goal. You were getting good at timing your strikes and you were growing like a weed. You knew not to eat too much now because our money was limited, and even though you didn't know what I had to do to get it exactly, you had some comprehension. You'd see how I was after a lover left me, you'd see how I'd get sometimes in the quiet, and you had to realize that I was dealing with monsters, that there were shadows in my brain.

"Yes, I'm happy, Ikkaku," I said, putting a hand on your forehead that you swatted away with a pout. I smiled. You'd let my hand rest there a moment too long to have truly hated it. "My little sunshine," I teased and laughed when you hit me in the back over and over without any real malice or force. Your cheeks glowed with embarrassment. Yes, you were starting to grow up. You didn't like being called little or being teased. You blushed sometimes at things that hadn't bothered you before, like seeing me get dressed or having to bathe together. You didn't kiss my cheek anymore, and you didn't hug me as often, but you still rubbed against me a lot when you were sleepy.

You were my sunshine, truly. I did have a lot of emotional problems, but since I had been with you, I was a lot happier. I had never once thought of you as my child, and I'm sure you felt the same. We had some sort of unspoken agreement where we never straight-out told the other to do something. We never made demands and didn't act like we had control over the other, but we depended on each other. I started to wonder what I'd do if you got sick and died. It'd be okay to go back to being alone, because I was so used to it, but I didn't want to go back to that. I hoped we'd have many years together. I wanted to see you become a man. I wanted to see how strong you'd become and see if you'd still hug me then, if you'd still look to me for approval. Someday, someday I will save enough money to get you a quality sword.

Months went by and we were still together. We had made it through winter together now and were better for it. There was more money for us than usual, since we were in a district where there was a murder-spree and many prostitutes were killed. It was a dangerous time for me to be out, but there was less competition, so I risked it. We ate well, but things weren't all good.

You saw a man pull my hair, and you got really angry. I'd never seen you get so angry before, but I understood why you were, because although you pulled on my sleeve and hand a lot, you'd _never_ pulled my hair, and I was always careful to make sure that you never saw a man treating me that way. I wanted you to keep thinking of me as that wise person who knew the answers, who had pride and was smart enough to find a way to avoid something like this. You saw me above everyone else, above you, and that's why it upset you so much to see someone do that. You really believed I was too good for everyone.

We'd been in fights together before, but this one was different. You were furious, uncoordinated in your rage, and still no use in a fight. I was fast and could dodge blows, and we even took out two of them together, but it was over when they grabbed you. One of them had a knife, and I panicked. I couldn't take them in a fight on my own, and neither of us had real weapons.

You struggled, eyes leaking as they jeered at you and laughed, poking fun at how worked up you were and how easy it was to hold you still. Of course it was. They were men and you were a boy. I could see the shame on your face when I told them to let you go, when I offered myself instead. That's what they'd wanted all along.

"You think you can take all five of us?" one jeered, and I didn't bat an eye. Five? Was that all? I could handle them all at once, and then when they were done and asleep, I'd strangle them one by one.

You screamed and writhed, biting, wooden sword on the ground as one twisted your arm back and the other slugged you in the gut. You were silent for three seconds from the force, and then you coughed, to my relief. I thought he'd broken something, but you'd remembered to clench up your gut first, and had only been stunned. "Lemme' go!" You kicked and thrashed around as one of them came up to me and tilted my chin up. "No, _No!_ Don't!" you screamed, watching him manhandle me. I coldly met the man's eyes and held my breath as the stench hit my nose.

"Only five?" I said coldly, and the guy turned back to his buddies and they all busted out laughing. "Let him go and I'll give you the sweetest night." They dropped him immediately.

You scrambled over to me clumsily, grabbing your sword off the ground. I pushed you behind me and tried to tell you to go back to our room, but you elbowed back in front.

"Ikkaku, go home," I said urgently but flatly, not wanting these men to get impatient and decide to kill you anyways.

"No! I can fight!" you cried, eyebrows scrunched up, eyes still wet and red, so filled with shame at your loss and that I had stepped in that I could hardly bear it. I grabbed your ear roughly and yanked you away, telling you to _go home_ and stop making a fool out of me, which just about broke your little heart. I told you then that I'd be back soon, and you looked unsure, because you actually thought they wanted to fight me, that they would kill me, and that wasn't what they wanted at all. Really, I would be okay, but you had to obey me and go away from here. I would not let you see. You _couldn't_ see what I would have to do in exchange for your freedom.

I gave you my coldest gaze and told you to just go, and you did, cheeks burning, head down. I don't think I've seen the back of your head since we've met.

When I found you the next day in our room, you were balled up at the foot of the bed, sitting awake with dark rings under your eyes. The bed was still made, you had your arms around your knees, and one look at me had your lip quivering. You grabbed me hard and bawled like a baby, but wouldn't look in my eyes even one time. You couldn't even talk straight as you tried to apologize and tell me that you should've protected me, that you should've been strong enough that I would've been able to rely on you. You were sorry, you were so so sorry, you told me. You asked if I was okay five times and checked my arms and face, but of course, there were no wounds there. I sat on the bed and you put your head in my lap, knees on the floor, hands fisting in my clothes. It hit me then that you'd really been afraid for me, you were _shaking._

I told you that I was okay and alive, and even though I didn't say it, you knew that if you hadn't picked a fight, nothing would've happened. "I couldn't even beat one of 'em!" you wailed, tears streaming down your face as you finally looked at me, seeming to be wondering how I'd done it, how I'd beaten all of them without so much as a single cut. Little did you know that my heart was bleeding, that I was filthy, absolutely filthy and cowardly to have made it back alive. I didn't deserve your admiration.

I put my hand to your forehead and you sobbed, teeth gritted in shame, and I told you not to lose again. I could tell I had deeply wounded your pride by interfering, that I had insulted you, but they had been planning to kill you and make me do what I had done with them anyways. It had been too soon for you to die. I wanted you to die on your feet as a man, not simply because you'd been trying to protect my honor.

One day you'll see I don't have any honor left to protect.

We left the district and ate in the next one, and by then you were quiet and serious, eating without talking and staying close to me. You seemed to realize that I felt weak and sick, that I had been injured even though you couldn't figure out where. You helped me sit down and let me lean on you when I stumbled. You still let me lead, staying quiet and almost meek. I could tell losing like that had had an effect on you. Where was my passionate confident boy? What had I done to his pride?

You stayed with me all the time now and it made it much harder for me to find work. When I talked to men, you'd often cut in and tell them quite plainly to 'fuck off' if they got too aggressive. They always got pissed off about a pipsqueak like you stepping in on their game, but you didn't back down. You caused trouble, but you carried out your threats and left a man bleeding when he grabbed me - you actually _bit_ him. It was immensely frustrating to have you scaring away my clients, but I knew you were trying to build yourself back up again, so I endured.

Eventually you got over it, and I could see that you had matured. You laughed less often, your smiles weren't as harsh and blinding if you weren't in a fight and you walked a little closer behind me now. You were more careful and more attentive to me, but not nosy. You went off on your own a lot to play with other boys, but you always found me throughout the day just to make sure we were both fine and haven't gotten lost. You brought money too, but not enough.

We were in a nicer district now, one that you chose, and the men were less violent here. It was a welcome change, but I still killed them afterwards, except if they were sweet to me during.

I came back late with a bad taste in my mouth and a hitch in my step. My legs felt sticky and there was blood under my nails as I smiled at the innkeeper's wife and headed upstairs, cracking our door open and seeing a candle still burning for me. You were sprawled in the bed on your tummy, face towards the door, mouth open and eyes closed, dead asleep. I smiled wearily and let my hair loose, sliding under the one fleece sheet and resting my head on the straw mattress. Letting out a sleepy moan, you snorted and jerked once, eyes fluttering open for an instant as you fell back into sleep. The light flickered over your face for a moment before I blew out the candle, and I could feel you squirming over to me. You were thirteen then, and you all but never cuddled me when you were awake, but I could tell that seeing me sacrifice myself for you really messed you up and you still weren't over it completely.

When I woke up, you weren't there. I checked out of our room and said goodbye to the innkeeper and headed out, finding you not far away, training hard, pouring sweat. It really hit me then that you were still a boy, but not a _little_ boy. Your muscles were starting to define, your jaw was filling out, and you were starting to get mild acne.

You went at it for hours, until you couldn't hold your training-sword. You really wanted to become stronger, and I could see that you were going to. You were growing up right before my eyes, and I knew that soon you wouldn't need me. I hoped that you would stay anyways.

When you saw me, you collapsed in the grass next to me and lay there staring at the clouds. I just sat there in a seiza and watched your body heave, sweat glistening all over you. You were more lean than skinny now that I thought about it, and the top of your head was probably just below my ear when we stood next to each other. Your voice cracked all the time, and you would probably grow a lot more that summer. Soon you would be standing tall and leaving me in the dust.

You smiled proudly when I complimented your swing technique. You told me you wanted to be the best so that you would never lose a fight again. We'll fight together and protect each other, you say. You're going to be the best fighter, you say. You'll never lose, you promise.

I know you're right, and I smile. My cheeks ache. I've been smiling more lately.


	2. Chapter 2

You grew up so much and so quickly that I could hardly believe it. You were a little taller than me already, and you were probably stronger by then too, but you never exploited it.

We still traveled together, all over the place, and now you suggested the paths almost every time. We'd decide on the best route and where we hoped for the best chance of survival, and went there together. You walked at my side, always at my side so that we could talk eye to eye. You could look me in the eye now without having to lift your chin.

You had become so handsome, but you were still so young in my eyes. You didn't grin as much as you did when you were really a child, but you still found my dry humor funny and enjoyed talking with me. I was used to talking by now and we shared the conversation equally. You loved my stories and were starting to get some of your own. You weren't always with me, off fighting with the other young men, but you were there with me more often than not. It was clear that you considered us partners, that we were not to separate for too long. We were travelling companions and were a unit, a group that would not break. It had never been discussed, never been brought up or even thought of. We had no future plans, but it was a sure thing that we would be together for the forseeable future.

I had hoped this would happen. You had become an adult, or nearly there, and still, although you were a restless young man, you didn't express a desire to leave me, not ever. Even when you disagreed with me, you were respectful and never berated my opinions or decisions. Yes, you were seventeen and you were then old enough to make your own decisions. You were old enough that I didn't lead anymore, and I didn't know if it was because I didn't have to or because you didn't want me to.

Your head wasn't as round anymore, your jaw was sharper, your ears didn't look so strange against your head now that you had grown into them, and your eyes weren't as wide in curiosity and excitement. You were tall and lean, thin but not skinny, and your arms were wiry and firm. You still touched me a lot in a familiar way that would naturally occur between affectionate friends. Sometimes you touched my hair, but only in private, and very briefly. I knew it was something you'd wanted to do badly as a child, so I didn't say anything when you did it. I wondered if you knew that I could feel it, because it was almost like you were trying to be sneaky about it.

Yes, you walked at my side, and the hilts of our swords jostled together all the time. It was uncomfortable, but you didn't move away. You were constantly looking to my face when we talked, and you had become quite a good listener, but you were by no means quiet.

You were seventeen already, I still couldn't get over it. You were seventeen and you'd had a favorite sword for about three years. We'd gotten it together after pooling our money. You'd had no idea how many people I'd had to go through to get enough, but it had been worth it when I'd seen your face when we'd bought it. You'd loved it. You still hadn't mastered it yet at seventeen, but you were trying it out every chance you got. You had become strong, but your skills still needed work.

We fought for fun a lot, and you could beat me almost half-and-half then, even though I knew that if you had gone all out, you could have defeated me without fail, every time. I wondered why you held back, but you seemed like you had so much fun. You smiled wide and there was warmth in your eyes, and it wasn't like the smile you gave when you were fighting other men. No, then you went until they couldn't stand, until they'd passed out. You were still getting used to killing, and you rarely did it.

We'd had to of course by that point, and the first time you'd done it yourself had been when you were about fifteen. That had really shaken you up, that first time, but I'm sure you'd felt no guilt. We had gotten in over our heads in a bar fight, and I'd cut the hand off this guy, but he was still dragging me away. He was  _huge_ , and he just wouldn't let go no matter how many times I slashed him. He grabbed the back of my head and before I knew it, I'd been tossed over his shoulder and he had slammed me back into the ground with all his strength. I heard my skull crack and just lay there in a daze.

Yes, you'd killed him, and that was the first time it hadn't been in a battle where the opponent had simply died as a result of their injuries, not the moment you put the sword in. That was the first time that it hadn't been an opponent that you'd sought out as an honorable man, a fight to the death that had been earlier agreed upon. No, you'd murdered that man, stabbed him between the shoulder blades without him knowing you'd been creeping up on him, and I could see it had been hard for you. You hadn't cried, but you'd laid awake and stared up at the sky for a few nights. You'd wanted to talk about it sometimes, and others you hadn't. Fifteen was so young, even out here, to have killed someone. I knew that you liked to fight, but you were not a cruel person, and I could tell doing that had shaken your moral pyramid.

It had gotten easier and easier after that, and you'd been better for it in your fights. You didn't hold back, and you were less afraid of death, I could tell you were. When you fought, you didn't smile like you did with me. You didn't look like a kitten when you grinned anymore. No, you were a wolf.

You were a wolf and you were thirsty for blood. You were drunk off the thrill of victory, and it made you restless between battles. You were eager, and became easily frustrated when we went too long without getting into some kind of ruckus. I could start to tell when it had been a little too long for your liking, because you'd get jittery and hyper, tight with nervous energy, and you'd start whacking things and making noise. I knew you could tell that I was getting too old for those fights, that I wasn't improving at the quick rate that you are and that the thrill had long worn off, but you didn't tell me to stay behind and I didn't tell you not to search out opponents.

You were almost a man, and your sword was always on your belt, never far from your hand. It wasn't like it was all you focused on, that you were hand to mouth and that all your concentration was on that next orgasmic high of adrenaline. It was just there in the corner of your vision, ready for you if you needed it.

You were a young man, you were almost all grown up, but you still wanted to make me proud like you had when you'd been a child. I could see it on your face when you fought and looked to me when you made a particularly impressive move or took down a  _really_  tough guy. You lit right up and were happy for the rest of the night whenever I congratulated you or complimented your wins. You  _starved_  for my approval. You wanted me to be proud of you. You wanted me to see you improve, to watch you get better each time and acknowledge that.

With it came arrogance, and it had been inevitable. You hadn't been unbearable as a teenager, and you were on the tail end of it now, but you still could be very single-minded once you'd decided something. You'd started to challenge my opinion. You never became violent or overly upset, and you never cursed at me, but I could tell that your respect for me was no longer iron-clad. I wasn't on a pedestal; I was on equal ground. You tested me more. You had more faith and confidence in yourself and were starting to think you knew everything, that you knew  _better_ , that your ethics were the right ones.

I'm sure you'd caught on to what it is that I did for a living. You were still pretty innocent in that regard, because we didn't visit bars very much and you didn't drink, so there weren't many situations in which you would've learned about things like that, but I'm sure you knew. Maybe you'd thought it was something less extreme, like me kissing men for money instead of lying with them, but I'm sure you knew. You'd listened to my 'beautiful' and 'ugly' talk for years, and I'm sure you'd made the connection that I would've never associated with ugly men unless I'd had something to gain, and that was money.

You were still very protective of me; I could see that you cared for me and didn't want to see me doing things like that, and you interfered for a long until before you finally and came out and said it. You must have followed me after you'd gone off with your little friends, because I'd had things under control with a rough client who was fooling around with me in an alley, but I know how it must've looked to you. Suddenly you'd been there, elbowing me back and there was a sword through the man's chest. You were absolutely livid, baring your teeth, eyes wide, pupils pinpricks as you kicked the dead guy off your blade and just stared at him as his body fell and laid there motionless. You hocked a glob of saliva from your throat and  _spat_ on him _._

It took me a moment to gather composure, so mortified and furious as I tied my yukata around my front and recovered from the fact that one second I'd been kissing him and the next he'd been dead. It hadn't taken much longer for me to round on you, speaking in a deadly calm voice, glaring fiercely.

"Ikkaku," I growled, and I could see then that you understood what had been going on, because you look so fucking disappointed and disgusted, not of me, but  _for_  me. You swallowed sickly, looking between me and the corpse, lips tugging down in displeasure as you seemed to be putting everything together rapidly. How many years had I been dropping hints, and now you suddenly knew that I'd been doing this since you were a child and even before that.

"You may not interfere in my confrontations," I said sharply, using that tone that always made you immediately adjust your attitude and duck your head, "You have killed my customer, now we cannot eat!" I raged at you and your blind fury. You'd ruined everything, you'd humiliated me, and now you've made me degrade myself for nothing on top of it. I did those things for you, for  _us_ , and you were making light of that, you were making me question that commitment.

Your nose wrinkled and you kicked the dead guy harder than necessary as you glared down at him. "We can take his money anyway. He's dead," you said lowly, and you were right, but that was besides the point in my eyes, and I sputtered for a moment.

I couldn't stand that I had dropped in your opinion. It killed me to see how horrified and in shock you were at what I'd done with my body with however many it'd been. "You may not do that again!" I said, and I felt that my authority over you had crumbled. True, I'd never really had much, but I knew right then that the last of my credibility with you had slipped away and that from then on you'd never listen to a word I said with complete faith ever again.

You turned on me then and pointed in my face, and for the first time since I'd met you, I felt threatened. You were angry, you were  _furious_  and you were in my personal space, growling and puffing yourself up. You were deliberately trying to intimidate me. You weren't taller than me, but it certainly felt that way now. "I'll do it as many times as I have to," you shouted, looking like you might vomit, and I could hear your young ideals about a perfect world where I wouldn't have to do this in your voice. Things didn't work that way though, and you needed to wake up. It wasn't a matter of me wanting to or not wanting to. It was a matter of  _needing_  to and my choice to bend to circumstance.

"I know you don't do it because you like them!" you hollered at me, and my eyes narrowed, but I held my ground. "Maybe you think you have to, but I'm not gonna' let you!"

"That's not your decision," I said in a short clipped tone, knocking you down an inch by refusing to match your volume. Your facial expression faltered, and I saw doubt flash over your features, but you recovered quickly, your scowl deep and harsh. "Don't talk about things you don't understand." At those words, your forehead pinched so hard with offense, upset, denial, and overall anger, that it looked like you'd had a stroke.

In your eyes I could still see lingering hurt, pain for me, so much distress on my behalf and a hero's instinct to help me, to save me from this and stop me having to do this ever again. You still saw me up on that pedestal, but it wasn't like that. It had never been like that. You were an inch from seeing how dirty and awful I've always been. I'd never been that person that you ever should've admired, and you were so close to finding that out that it was killing me.

"I'm not letting you be some goddamn whore!" you snarled, lip curling, and I slapped you dead in the face.

You'd pushed just an inch too far, and I wasn't going to take that for a second. I took it from everyone else, but I wouldn't hear it from you. I couldn't bear it from you.

Your head went down right away, eyes hidden and dark, but I could feel the raw emotion radiating out of you as you stood there with your fists balled and shook. You had stepped completely out of line and you knew it. "There is no such thing," I hissed, deeply hurt that you'd ever say something like that to me, and more so that you think that wasn't what I'd already become. You saw me as a person with dignity, someone who hadn't degraded themselves, someone who would still be clean and prideful if I'd just stop doing this. You thought that it was just one or two personal choices that had taken me down a bad path and not that I'd always been this way, that this wasn't who I was. You thought that I felt like I  _had_  to do this, and I did, but somehow you felt like there was another way, that you knew better, that you could help me when I'd already made my decision.

Maybe there was another way, maybe I could've let you kill men so that I didn't have to lay down with them, and we could've still eaten, but I didn't want to place such a responsibility upon you. I wanted to take care of us like I always had. I didn't want to owe you anything or make you feel like you had to plan your young life around  _me._  Once you saw that I had no intention of ever changing my lifestyle, you'd realize that I was every bit as filthy as you'd been trying to deny, and it hurt, it hurt so bad.

More than that, that had been the first time you'd outright defied me. It wasn't that I'd had control over you or told you what to do, but you'd never done something like that or told me that what I'd done was wrong. That had been the first time you'd tried to exert control over me, even though it had only been out of care. You wanted what was best for me, what you thought was best. You adored me, you truly did, and I could feel it, but you shouldn't have.

I went on then, voice shaking in pure fury and the pain it took to get the words out, "There are people who deny themselves, people who do what they please, and people who simply do not care. There are no whores and no prudes. Those are words made to make you feel guilty."

"But you don't do it because you like them! I  _know_  you don't! You're supposed to only do that for love!" you insisted, and I was taken back to that day we'd met when you'd thought that man was my sweetheart just because you'd seen us kiss. You'd assumed that someone as beautiful as I would be able to find love wherever I wanted and wouldn't settle for less, but now you understood that I didn't value myself the way you obviously valued me.

"How can you just feel nothing?! How can you make yourself kiss someone you think is ugly?! Somebody that you've only known for a day?!"

"I told you. It's my decision." You weren't listening, and it was driving me mad. I wanted to believe you and your young heart so badly. In a perfect world, things would've been like that, but it wasn't, and I needed money to live. I wanted to live. I wanted to keep living and stay there with you.

"But doing that with just anyone is-" I grabbed your face and dug my nails into your cheeks, dragging your gaze up to mine.

"I want us to  _survive_ ," I said with deadly calm, the anger just barely under the surface. "I want  _me_  to survive, and I will  _eat_. To eat, I must have money. To have enough, I must work. People only pay money for two things around here: Alcohol and sex."

You were distressed now and your voice was breaking, your expression a mask of horror and fury. "So that's just  _it,_  then? You just give up?"

"It's acceptance, not defeat," I said.

You shook your head, holding your stomach, fists clenched there like you were going to throw up. " _So you're just gonna' spread em' to the whole town?!"_ you shouted, absolutely breaking my heart.

I turned from you then. "What if I didn't, hm? What would that change? People see my face and that I live here, and what will they think? They'll think I'm exactly what I am now. If they're going to taunt me and call me such names even if I'm a saint at night, I might as well play along and become what they say. No one would know the difference." My eyes were closed as I depart.

"I do."

I stopped dead for a minute, but you were already there at my side walking with me, not looking me in the eye even though I was gazing at your face, heart bleeding. I felt like you'd finally broken through into the adult world and seen that it was a horrible place, and even though I was a pretty creature, that even I wasn't above that. You could finally see that even I wasn't untainted, that I didn't always have a solution, that I hadn't been strong enough to save myself, that I wasn't this idealized person that you'd thought I was. The person who taught you to fend for yourself, the person who gave you motivation and strength, that person had been a hypocrite. That advice and the drive it had given you had been a lie.

You didn't say a word about it over the months as we eat or stay in inns. Your lips pressed into a thin line when you saw me handling money, but you never said anything about it. I couldn't help but feel more ashamed than I had before, because I could feel judgement in your gaze and I didn't like it. I'd fallen in your opinion and I hated it.

I knew you'd meant well. You'd meant well and you'd had the best intentions, but you shouldn't have felt bad for my sake. I'd made the decision and hardened my resolve a long time ago. It was just like your fights were to you as those men were to me. With every man, it got a little easier, a little easier to still like myself when I put my clothes back on afterwards, just like you got a little stronger with each battle won. Still, I knew that you'd insist with horror that those were two very different things. I wanted you to respect me, I wanted you to love me with those trusting adoring eyes that you'd had just a short time ago, but I wondered if that was still possible now that you knew.

You were growing into a man, and soon you wouldn't feel that way anymore. You'd be out there just like the rest of them. Once you had your first encounter, you'd be hooked to it. They all were. Perversion was a disease out there. I'd hoped to keep you from that for as long as possible, but there was no denying it now. You were not that child anymore, and soon you'd want a roll in the hay.

Once it came to that, though, I knew that I wouldn't be spending my nights with you anymore. We'd both be off with other people, and I didn't know if I'd be able to bear it when it finally happened. One day you'd come back after going off with your friends and you'd be grinning like the cat that caught the canary – and not because of a good fight. You'd look satisfied and lax, and your belt would be tied wrong. You'd be telling me you'd had the best night of your life.

How on earth could I try to say no? How could I tell you then before it happened, that finding strangers in the night wasn't what you wanted out of life? How could I tell you that sleeping with someone you didn't know wasn't okay? I had no credibility anymore, because it was exactly what I did that I'd be begging you to reconsider. At the same time that my selfishness was sabotaging me, my heart was telling me to let you go. You'd grown up and you deserved love and pleasure if that's what you desired. Anything your heart desires, you must have, Ikkaku.

You were lying there on the bed while I was in a seiza on the floor, by the fire. Your arms were behind your head and your eyes were wandering over the ceiling. We'd had a good day and you were in an unusually serene mood, resting your bones. You always have some kind of injury these days, but today you didn't seem to, and you obviously felt great. You'd had a bunch of consecutive wins, a fight per day for about a week, and you were finally ready for a break.

You'd finished stretching with a lot of pleasured sighs and were just lying there now, enjoying the burn. I got up and sat on the other side of the bed. There wasn't much room, and your legs stuck out a bit now, but that was only because you didn't curl up in a ball like I always did. You laid yourself out with your joints at full extension without a care in the world, while I shrunk up like a hedgehog.

Yes, you were growing up. You didn't have facial hair and I didn't think you ever would, but your legs were hairy, and with your arms like that, it was clear that you definitely had hair there too. Your eyes were slanting like a lizard's more than ever, although they were still big and oval shaped instead of slits. Your neck was corded, you'd lost the baby fat from your face and your jaw had sharpened, and although your body was slender, you were packed with muscle. Your long legs were glowing in the firelight, and your feet were big and hanging over the end of the mattress. You'd gotten so tall.

You really weighed the bed down now, and your hands were large and callused, your fingers long and agile. You were the perfect fighter, quick and light, but strong as an ox. A few more years and you'd really be in your prime. Part of it made me desperately sad. Please… Please keep that little boy that you were somewhere in your heart.

It had been about seven months since your eighteen birthday – yet another reason why I was sure someone had raised you and that you'd had some sort of family: You knew your actual birthday, whereas I'd had to pick one for myself. You were eighteen then, yes, but still far from a man. You'd been fighting more violently and vigorously than ever. You'd made other friends by then, and it'd been a long time since your first drink, but that was the first time we'd gone drinking for real and you weren't just having a glass or two because I'd felt like indulging your curiosity.

Your friends were looking to get sloshed, and I supposed you were too – although it was more likely that you were hoping for a bar fight. I hadn't known why you'd brought me along, but I'd come all the same and found other company at the bar counter. The bartender and I had known each other a long time, since we always talked when I came here to pick up men.

I could hear your friends patting you on the back and telling you that it was high time for you to lose your virginity. I heartily agreed, but I didn't say anything on the subject, knowing that you'd fulfill that interest when you were good and ready. I  _wanted_  you to do it when you were ready, not like I'd had to out of necessity. You were shrugging and brushing the comments off, trying to change the subject, but they were pointing out women to you, insisting that it was time for you to dive beneath the sheets. They were telling you that the sign of a true man was that he could get a woman. They said it was a test of your masculinity, and I was so sure that you'd rise to the challenge. They were trying to set you up, to show you a good time, but it couldn't be further from my business or interest. I figured that I'd see you in the morning, with or without every article of clothing that you'd left in.

To my surprise, you were looking to me for input, waiting to see what I'd say, how I felt on the matter or whether I approved. It suddenly hit me that even though you were far from being a hatachi, you had long since grown up. You didn't need my say anymore, and anytime you asked my opinion or wanted to hear it, it was just indulgence, and not because you actually needed guidance.

You wanted to know what I thought, I could see that, but I didn't say a word, because it wasn't my business at all. It wasn't that I didn't care, but it wasn't my place to have opinions on the matter. You were old enough to decide something like that for yourself, just like you shouldn't need my permission to go drinking, and your friends were telling you that right then, dragging you off to talk to a mildly-pretty girl. It was high time you learned that we didn't need each other anymore. Maybe we never had.

I got up from the bar to leave, thinking about taking a walk in the night air to clear my thoughts, maybe walk around slowly enough that someone may try to rape me so that I could have a good fight of my own. I was going out the doors, but you were there leaving with me, right at my side with your drink, your buddy calling after you in disappointment about how that this would just leave more girls for him. You waved him away.

We walked in silence and I swallowed and stared at the ground as you finished off your beer. You told me you like spirits much better than that shit-beer and threw the bottle against a wall, pleased with the shattering noise. Then you gave me a crazed hyper smile like you had when you'd been a kid and told me that there was so much fun to be had tonight that didn't involve pillow-talk. You grabbed my hand and told me that I should come too instead of playing with a man tonight. 'Just for tonight', you begged, 'let me be your man tonight', you pleaded, and I conceded, letting you drag me wherever you wished.

We went gambling, and thus was birthed your special dance. You'd been pretty drunk, but nothing could shake balance like yours.

After that it seemed like fighting and drinking was all you wanted to do. No more frog-hunting or watermelon-seed spitting contests. No more star-counting or swimming in the river or exploring the badlands for however long we could go without water. Now it was just tallying wins and seeing how much sake you could knock back without getting a hangover in the morning.

You were still a nice kid, but you'd certainly matured. You had your own goals then that didn't involve me. Sometimes I wondered if you even still wanted me around or if I was just the one lingering and dragging you down. You walked next to me, but I could see your eyes shifting from man to man, sizing up their strength. Your hand was almost always on your sword hilt then, and you didn't look at me when we talked. You didn't talk so much anymore, actually.

That summer went by quickly, even though the days seemed to be all the same. Wake up, pick a destination, walk, walk, fight, walk, maybe eat, walk, walk, walk, fight, drink, walk, and finally sleep. My feet ached. I couldn't remember ever traveling as much as we did then, but you were desperate for new opponents, and I didn't argue. We'd never had any actual plans for our lives anyway other than this. When you'd been a kid though, there'd been a lot more fun involved, more singing and dawdling, more exploring the woods and the town as we'd gone, but now your heart was set on only one thing, and it was no longer me and my company.

You were nineteen, and you didn't ask me for comfort anymore. You didn't tell me about your problems, if you even had any, that is. You didn't want to talk about things if something bothered you and you brooded a lot more often. You could fight more people at one time than you ever could, but you didn't seem to like going against more than one at once anymore, and that frustrated you, because one was never enough to satisfy you, one was never strong enough for the fight to last long.

You were quieter, more irritable. You weren't touchy anymore, except at night. The last time I'd seen you cry was when you'd been fourteen, and that had simply been out of shame at a particularly humiliating loss of a battle. No, you weren't a crybaby anymore, you weren't huggy, and your ambitions weren't really dreams anymore. They were goals, more like it, and they were rock-solid. You didn't want to become a shinigami, but you wanted to become strong enough to fight the crooked ones that patrolled out here and pushed people around. You wanted power. You'd advanced too far for any of the pluses there to put up enough fight, but those shinigami were too far ahead of you still for you to survive a fight with them, and you knew that.

You didn't seem to think about anything but that, and you didn't bring up pointless things or chatter now. You responded when I told you stories, and I could see you loved hearing them, because it was clear you were listening, but you didn't offer much on your own, unless I came out and asked. You didn't touch me when you were awake, never. The last time you'd killed someone on my behalf because they'd disrespected me had been about a year prior. You didn't even raise an eyebrow when you saw me come back home with rosy cheeks and tousled hair. You hardly ever even said 'good morning' and 'good night' to me. You didn't touch me, you didn't hug me, you didn't share your thoughts. No, that big heart of yours was disappearing, and it made me ache inside.

I'd thought you were annoying as a kid, a nuisance, because it had taken me so long to warm up to you and make you a part of my life. By the time I'd been able to appreciate you, you'd already grown up too much. Maybe I'd taken those days for granted when you'd been so happy, because I'd been cold and grey at that time, I'd been depressed and I hadn't played with you as much as I should've. It was too late now, because I was in a better place mentally because of you and all I wanted to do now was play. Gone were the times when you would bawl and hold out your arms to me, and I would turn you away. You no longer reached out for reassurance, but I craved your embrace,  _I_ was the one who wanted comfort from  _you,_ and it drove me mad.

The touch kept coming less and less until it was almost gone. I would come home late at night after the last man was finally done and I'd be praying hard that tonight you'd do something small, that you'd so much as pat my shoulder or my hand, but you never did and it broke my heart worse and worse each time. That money didn't seem like enough gratification anymore. I wanted you to greet me at least when I came back, and I'd feel like it was worth it. I wanted your touch, just a small bit to make me feel clean, to wipe away my dirty deeds, but it didn't happen anymore. You didn't reach out, and I wouldn't ask you to.

My greatest weakness had been your little hands, but they weren't little anymore.

You'd long since grown too old to share a bed with me. You could've slept on the floor if you so'd chosen. You could've slept in a field or a ditch, or laid at my feet; you could've told me to trade every other night, or just demanded that I let you have the bed, but you didn't, and you had never once raised a point about the fact that you were getting too old for this. Not even after that first time you'd said you were too old to take a bath near me and that you wanted privacy, you still hadn't said you wanted me to sleep away from you. I wondered if you'd ever wake up and suddenly realize that the things we did were strange. Maybe it had been so long that neither of us would be able to sleep alone. I didn't think I was capable of being without you anymore, but I was sure you'd be okay after a while.

That was the only time I felt needed by you - that moment before you went to sleep when you'd be on the very edge of dozing off. My hair would be out of its tie and combed straight up over the top of my pillow so it wouldn't get in our faces while we slept, and your hand would reach out in those last moments where your eyes were drifting closed. Your fingers would scrunch up in my hair and pet it slightly, and you'd go out like a light, rolling closer. You'd fall into deep sleep and move close and scootch up to me, put your arm around my shoulder and hold us together just barely. You still needed that contact to fall asleep, and you probably didn't even realize that you did it, but I was sure that even that would pass with time.

It wasn't that you were inviting me along to your fights anymore, it was more like I just came and was there. I didn't have that same feeling I had when you'd looked to me when you'd done something impressive and were looking for validation. No, you didn't want to make me proud, it seemed, this was for  _you_. The only time you waited for approval was afterwards, when you came back to me and started smiling that  _real_ smile, and I told you how lucky you were, not to have survived, but to have found such a great opponent.

Sometimes it wasn't like that, though. We'd met our fair share of gangs, and in your younger days, at about fifteen or sixteen, we'd fought together against others. You'd liked to share the win together, but it wasn't like that now. You wanted it for yourself, maybe out of some want to keep me safe. Maybe you knew my skill wasn't as great as yours by then, or maybe it was just because you'd rather have them all. Whatever it was, it certainly got you into trouble now and then, and there had been more than a few fights where I'd started to doubt that you'd win. You'd told me never to worry about you, that you'd absolutely win no matter what, but of  _course_  you didn't  _plan_  to lose. It didn't mean it wouldn't happen. It didn't mean I wouldn't lose you.

You wanted to fight one on one now, you always did, but not everyone honored that. It was probably about ten that time, a gang, and they were out for blood. They'd probably come after me too after they finished beating you to death, but I couldn't make myself run away.

You stood up, covered in blood, after one last guy kicked you in the head. I called for you and drew my weapon, but you held your hand up, not even turning to me. 'Stay out of it', you said.

"I don't want your help."

My eyes widened at that moment and my grip on my blade went slack. There was a man coming for me, but I was only looking at you and your bloody back. ' _What_ …' I thought, those words playing over and over in my mind. No, you didn't need me, it had been clear for a long time, but now you didn't want me either.

The pain was unbearable, but I couldn't move, even when he grabbed the cloth on my shoulder and yanked. You were still holding your weapon like a warrior and standing on your own two feet, still not even looking back to me to see if I was alright. I could see that you were smiling.

I watched them cut you down, and I screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

You're twenty three now and you're strong. You're grown and have become powerful from endless training and countless battles. You're not that young boy who tries to get me to play with toads or who smiles for a reason other than bloodshed. You're not that boy who pretends to be tough but cries secretly at night. No, you don't pretend. You  _are_  tough. You're tough and you don't need me anymore.

You haven't for a very long time.

You've become a man, and it's clear to me now. I don't know exactly when it happened, because I never suddenly woke up and decided that you were fully an adult, but it's clear to me that you've become a man and you've been that way for a while. It's not even that you've finally grown into your body, it's that your mind has settled into its adult ideals, the ones that become so ingrained in one's being that they're impossible to change. I think it's like that with everyone, but with you especially. When you believe something, you believe it so hard that God themself couldn't come down from heaven and change your mind. You're a man now and you're not going back. You're sure of your decisions, and you don't look to me for input, because you don't need it. You're an adult and you're independent from me.

My philosophy used to be that 'you don't need me, but you won't leave me', but now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's not that one day you'll wake up and decide to go, but I'll be too slow in following and you won't wait, you'll just be gone, and I'll realize that the only reason we've been together for so long is because I was the one who decided to follow you. I have nightmares like that a lot.

It doesn't make it better how our daily interactions are now. You walk in front of me, always in front. You lead and I follow, and you never look back, not ever. You're always walking ahead, and sometimes I wonder if your intention is to walk  _away._

Away from  _me_ , away like you want to lose me, like you want to leave me behind and walk out of my life. Maybe that's what you've wanted for a long time but I'm just the one following behind needlessly and foiling your long slow plan to escape. It's not a stretch for me to imagine it. You've grown out of my company long ago. You don't seem to care either way who's around you now, not even me. It wouldn't make a difference to you if you were alone, would it.

You don't have other friends anymore, really. You're too crass and mean most of the time, too irritable and focused on fighting to maintain friendships with pluses, and too bull-headed to do anything but fight the ones who had spirit-power. You don't waste time with people other than to procure alcohol, to fight, or to get information about fighting. There's no one you go out with at night to gamble with, only against, but on the upside, there's no one who I'd have to compete with for your attention other than your opponents. No, you don't have friends, and I wonder if  _I_ even qualify as a friend to you. It's almost like you can't tolerate people anymore, like you're so focused on your goal that nothing and no one really matters.

You don't have a big heart like you did when you were young. No, sometimes I wonder if you have a heart at all anymore.

What happened to it? Sometimes I wonder if I destroyed your faith in love.

You've grown out of needing physical contact, words of affection, a playmate, a safe place. You've grown out of needing friends, drinking buddies, young men your age to share your woes with. You've grown out of my company, you've grown out of  _me._  You only keep me around because… well, you don't even keep me around, really. It's me keeping  _myself_ around. I just follow because I can't bear to let you out of my sight.

The only reason I'm still here is because… because it would break my heart to see you go.

You're twenty-three now and your sword never leaves your hand. You sleep with it in your arms instead of me, you walk with it over your shoulder instead of holding my hand, you eat with it in your lap instead of truly pigging out like you used to. Sometimes I wish you'd touch me like that, like you do that sword, like you used to do for me. I still remember you and your grubby fingers pulling my kimono sleeves apart to take my hand and pull, and I know it will never happen again.

You're twenty-three and you don't care about making me proud anymore. You don't look to me for approval and you don't flaunt your victories. At twenty, a brand-new hatachi, you would retell your battles over and over, obviously pleased with yourself, but now, you're never satisfied for more than an hour. The post-fight bliss will have barely worn off and already you'll become moody and restless again. I fear that I've birthed a monster inside you, that I've made you feel that this is your destiny, what you've been made to do in this world. I know that you're a man now and I'm not responsible for what you think or what you've become, but I fear that I planted the seed.

I'm the one you began training for, I'm the one that you did all this for, at least in the beginning. I'm not fool enough to think that you do any of this for me now, but when you first started out, I knew. Your eyes would shine so brightly when I expressed pride in you, your soft heart would fill with confidence and joy and you'd try even harder. Your motivation no longer comes from me. You no longer strive to make me proud. You couldn't care less than you do. You don't care about anything, really.

I remember when you were younger and you asked me if I was happy, becoming so dispassionate when it seemed like I wasn't, and I wonder where that boy is now. You never seem happy now, never content other than when you're gulping sake. I don't know why you do it when you don't do it to get drunk. It can't be because you enjoy the taste. No one enjoys the taste of cheap alcohol.

No, you're never satisfied with anything, are you? You're never pleased, never at peace, and it's clear to me that you're pissed at the world. You've become a very angry person, and I don't understand it. I just try not to become the target of your rage and hope for it to blow over like it always does. How I wish you would come alive with that young spirit again. You're young still now, to be sure, but I wish you were younger, _fresher_ , less marred by this horrible place.

You only grin when you fight - a maniacal smile that can't really be  _called_  a smile - it's only when it's a satisfying battle that really tests you, but it's always over too soon, and before I know it you're back to searching for another.

I soon understand,  _this_  is your orgasm. Maybe you never sought romantic partners, but you're just like those gutter-scraping perverts, desperate for a good lay like nothing else. You'll do anything for that short moment where you're free, where you're lost in the moment and fighting for your life. You want it so badly that you can't think of anything else. You're fixated, addicted, and it only becomes worse with time. The fights have to be bigger, bloodier each time, or else you're left in more of a snit than ever.

If I had no pride when we met, then I am dirt now. I remember what I said about caring about what people think of me, and I still think about it. I'm sure that they think I walk with you because you get off on violence, that you get horny when you fight and that you need someone to follow you to fuck afterwards. I know what they think I am and they're always cautious when I try to work, thinking that you'll come after them for trying to take me away from you. Please, it's not like that. As if you'd spare a glance for either of us if you saw. If only they knew how little you care for me.

Your eyes have narrowed more and more as the years have gone by. You looked like a bird when we met, maybe a little owl with your big, but oval-shaped eyes, but now you're definitely a snake or something scaly with those slits for eyes. You're always tight with nervous energy, brow clenched permanently, jaw tight and eyes squinting. Worst of all, you look so incredibly dismissive and disinterested with everything, even when you're looking at me, not that you do very much now.

No, I'm not worthy of your interest. You don't fight me anymore, haven't in so many years. I'm no longer a worthy opponent and you wouldn't dream of drawing your sword against me. I couldn't lay a scratch on you in a fair fight. I wonder why you let me follow you when you think that anyone who can't match up to you in battle isn't worth your time. Someday I'm sure you'll finally turn and ask me what I want, what I'm doing slowing you down like this.

You exploit your strength sometimes now, your size, your impressive new height and weight advantage, and I've learned not to push you when you've decided something. You never hurt me, but you're not beneath purposefully intimidating me. There is no changing your opinion, and if I disagree in the slightest, you take it as a challenge and get aggressive. You always knock it off pretty quickly, but the damage is done. You have no respect for me, and I don't try anymore. There will come a day when you will raise your hand against me, I'm sure of it. I'm just grateful that it hasn't come yet. If you were to strike me, that would be the last straw. My poor heart would break completely.

We still talk together a lot. Well, not a lot. It's mostly me talking. I talk until my throat is dry, and then I finally stop. When I hear how quiet it is, I notice that you haven't been saying anything, and when I realize that, I shut up too. We walk in silence, then, and you don't break it. I wonder how long things have been like that, and I don't speak up again.

You're twenty-four now, how time flies. I'm older than you by who knows how much, maybe a century, maybe more, but after a decade and a half, I say you can't be that much different from someone. The connection was there, and so age never mattered to me when it concerned you. I could have a lot in common with someone a hundred years older than  _me_ , right? Just because you're young now doesn't mean you always will be. It won't seem like a big difference when I'm a thousand and you're nine hundred, so I don't let it bother me now either. I never did. When you were younger, I felt old, but now I feel like I was the naïve one the whole time.

They say that youth was wasted on the young, and I'd fiercely believed that as I watched you grow up, but now I think that I was the one who'd wasted our time together. I should've played with you more. I really should have played with you more, every time you asked. Passing that up is something I bitterly regret.

You're long since past the age where you don't know how babies are made, where you don't understand what I do when I wander at night, and I know that you don't respect me for it. I don't try to lie to you about my hickeys being mosquito bites, because you wouldn't believe me anymore. You're not the young twelve-year-old who confessed in embarrassment that you didn't know what a woman's body looks like, you're not the sixteen-year-old who wondered aloud about why people aren't only 'doing sex' for love or babies. Maybe you don't believe in such a silly thing as love anymore, or maybe you've finally accepted that this 'treasure' between someone's legs isn't as precious as people make it out to be. Maybe you realized that I'm no different from any of them and find me just as disgusting. I wouldn't blame you in the least. You don't care when others touch me, and you don't touch me either, not even to fall asleep.

I've loved you. I've loved you for a long time, in a way that runs much deeper that I could've imagined. I've watched you grow up, but never once thought of you as my son or my younger brother. Not even as my friend. I don't know what you were to me, but it was a close intimate thing. You told me your secrets, your fears - I know your weaknesses like no one else in this world does. You are inside my brain and have wrapped through it like you own it, and I can't get you out of there no matter how hard I try. I know how you think, I know how you feel about others now. I know what's happened to that big heart of yours, and I don't hope. I never hope, but oh, how I  _want_. How I've  _loved_  you.

Sometimes I wonder if you even care if I'm there, if you want me to be quiet when I talk. I try hard to keep the conversation up, even though you only answer in grunts and noncommittal sounds, sometimes not at all. I'll tell you stories, because I know how you used to love them, and I'll go on and on even though your eyes are shifting this way and that, even though it's clear that you couldn't care less. Sometimes I'll stop right in the middle of my tale because I can't bear to go on. Usually you'll have spotted an opponent by then, and I'll pick up where I left off later, but other times I'll be mistaken and you'll turn your head back to me just slightly, just enough for me to see your eyelashes, and you'll say, 'and then what? I'm listening.'

Even that stops eventually.

You're twenty-five, and you don't even look my way when I'm groped. I handle it in my own way now, and I'm thinking of closing up shop for good. You'd offered in the past to share your money with me, but I know you'd rather spend it on booze than food for me as well as you. I wonder if you'd still take me up on that, even though the last time you'd extended the kindness had been almost five years ago.

No, you don't seem to care when men touch me now, no matter how forward they get. You don't have a young code of honor that demands that you stand up for me, you don't have a sense of chivalry. Sometimes when I'm with clients, I wonder if you're going to brothels without me knowing. I wonder if you ever did lose that virginity of yours somewhere without me realizing. I wonder if that's what you do when I'm away with other people… Maybe you're with someone too. Or maybe you just drink alone. I don't know which would make me sadder.

I carry my sword and I follow you. I want to get better. I want to be worthy of your attention again, and to do that, I must fight. I will make you acknowledge me. I don't want to make you turn back for me, but I want to walk at your side again. I will make myself worthy, I will purify this heart until I'm that person that the little boy in you saw.

I remember when we met, when you just were staring into the mud like you were looking at your reflection. I know that you were now, because it's the same expression you make every day now, without fail. You're staring into the void of your darkest hour, and I can't break through that. Since I can no longer reach out to you, to that heart that disappeared, I try to remember instead. I think of when you'd pick me flowers or catch a ladybug so carefully so as not to crush it before you let me see it. I think of when you'd play in your favorite swimming hole and apologize when I told you I didn't want you to splash me anymore. I think of when you'd let me climb on your shoulders and then pull you up onto the roof, and we could watch fireworks from what seemed like a thousand miles away. I think of your touch as we slept, your little chest rising up and falling.

I'm sure you don't still think about those times.

You've grown out of those memories. You've grown out of  _me._  You're not that person anymore. It's stupid to hold onto these things, to keep looking back on them, but it's all I have.

You're always walking ahead of me now, and I'm behind you, looking at your shoulders and burning the profile of your head into my mind. I'm sure I'd recognize the backs of your ears better than your face. You never turn to me. You don't care for me anymore, you have no respect for me. You're taller than me now, and you don't have to look up to me or see me on a pedestal. No, you look down. I'm not big enough to cut into your line of sight. I'm not worth notice. You walk ahead and never turn back to see if I'm there.

All I do is look back, but you… you don't ever look back, do you. Don't you dare.

There are tears in my eyes, but I smile.


End file.
